Shiver
by deGorgeous
Summary: After resolving to head to the monastery in the morning, Rosaline and Benvolio spend the night outside the city walls. Missing scene from 1.05


He holds out his arm, the edge of his cloak tucked between his fingers as he silently waits for her to accept his offer a second time. As irate as she is, the chill in the air has not lessened since the first time they shared its warmth, and so he expects her response will be no different either. It never occurs to Benvolio not to offer, strangely enough. It is the honorable thing to do, after all; it is a kind thing to do, even if Rosaline does not consider him so.

His arm is kept aloft as she scoots closer to him, her skirts clutched in her hands while he tries not to graze her uncovered shoulders, then rests his forearm against them once more, careful not to place too much of his weight upon her. Rosaline remains stiff beside him, but with each rankled breath he can feel the tension ebb.

However begrudgingly done, he is grateful she had chosen to join him. It was a tall ask, he knows, one even a most trusted companion hesitated in accepting, before rejecting entirely; yet even now he cannot blame Stella for it. Benvolio Montague is not a man who inspires faith, of this he has had a lifestyle of reinforcement. It is not for him that Rosaline has risked everything. She is with him now for the sake of their city; for the sake of conquering her own unfortunate circumstances, so that she may finally untether herself from him completely, but he is thankful nonetheless.

He wets his lips, prepared to tell her as such, when she clears her throat and tilts her chin upward, beating him to it. "Am I really all you have?"

Her tone is light, an invitation to expand on the matter at his own discretion. He could make a joke of it, a self-deprecating jab about burdening her with something so significant, but to do so now, after she'd witnessed his vulnerable admission an hour prior, feels pointless. They have nothing to hide from one another, for better or for worse, and he is so very tired of pretending.

"The only one I can trust, yes."

The fabric on his cape nearly slips through his grasp as Rosaline turns to face him, her neck angling to the side while her posture — knees bent and hands folded over her shins — stays otherwise the same. Benvolio keeps his gaze on the wilderness ahead. He dares not look at her, not when she is so intimately nestled next to him.

"Your uncle believes you innocent," she says, an attempt at consolation, though he knows not why she even bothers. He fights the impulse to sneer at her assertion outright, instead settling on a muffled grunt. "He was there, at the palace, defending you to the Prince—"

"For his own self-interest," he argues, exasperation simmering to the surface. The topic of his uncle always puts him on edge without fail. Benvolio is a stain upon their house, a notion made clear through years of shouted threats and ringed slaps across his cheek. It is a battle he'd lost before he'd even come of age, and the subject leaves him feeling defeated and bored. "It is the Montague name he defends, not me." Never me. "And I assume it was he who proposed you marry him instead, was it not?"

He glances at Rosaline, his eyes cast towards her but his face kept forward. Benvolio can feel her exhale on his neck, a pleasant puff that contrasts with the cold around them. Were he to move, their noses would almost touch and her breath would become his own.

Rosaline nods at his question, confirming what he knew to be true the moment she shared the information from her balcony. He expects to find judgement in her expression, some semblance of superiority in learning of the strain that exists within her rival house. Instead he sees something like understanding; sympathy without pity. It surprises him for a moment, and then it doesn't. The daughter of a deceased nobleman made to serve her own aunt and uncle, only rising in station to become a pawn in a façade of peace at the Prince's behest. Rosaline Capulet is no stranger to familial friction and complication.

"For what it's worth," she says, practically a whisper, her voice rougher, deeper. "I trust you as well."

It is worth more than he could ever say.

"Well then, trust me to see to our horses," he responds. He lifts himself off the ground, but not before loosening the ties of his cloak and letting it fall off him, leaving a puddle of cloth and flattened grass in his place.

Her mouth is left agape at his motion, looking between it and him as he dusts off his pants. "What about—"

"It's yours to use until I return. I've no need for it. You've made me quite hot."

The words tumble forth without him realizing what he's said until it's too late, words spoken in truth but uttered with embarrassing plainness. Rosaline, mercifully, only huffs out a laugh, a scoff as opposed to a knowing tease. She reacts more to his haughty delivery than the content of his statement.

He prays the night passes quickly, uncertain if he can keep his wits about him for long.

/

Benvolio returns to their spot just as the first signs of dawn approach over the horizon. He had ventured only a small distance away, vigilant to advancing soldiers or lurking dangers, ready to run back to Rosaline's side at a moment's notice.

Their steeds are well-rested, and their plan to seek out Friar Lawrence is still firmly set. A shiver erupts over him, a mixture of the low temperature and his nerves over the looming threat which hangs heavy. He rubs his palms back and forth along his biceps, craving the warm embrace of his shawl, when he sees a dark heap atop the rocky hill of their post.

Rosaline lays horizontal against the smoothest patch of stone, her back flat against it and body angled in sleep. She's no longer shaking, he's glad to note. Instead, she slumbers soundly, if not a bit fitfully from what he can tell. His cloak — now her cloak, really — blankets most of her, twisted around in some areas while abandoned at others.

Benvolio wonders if the same pressing worries which have occupied his thoughts have had her equally distressed. Of course they have. While she need not fear being executed like he does, the consequences of her association with him are sure to be severe should be they be caught. She deserves to remain undisturbed, his own comfort be damned.

She deserves a great many things.

He sits down across from her, leaned up against a smaller, less jagged formation. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest is soothing, its steady repetition calming him. Her lips are parted slightly, her features relaxed in a way he has never seen. He thought her beautiful before, but now she appears otherworldly. The complexion of her skin glows in the emerging rays, rich shades of brown with tints of blue where the light has yet to reach. As is his instinct, he contemplates how he might capture her likeness. Sketched in charcoal, or painted on canvas. Or better yet, sculpted from the finest marble.

As though she could hear him, suddenly, she stirs. Her head turns away with the change, errant curls cascading onto her forehead, swayed every now and then by the morning breeze. She lets out a peaceful sigh, but the air seems to leave Benvolio entirely as he looks upon her in her current position.

The billowing sleeve of her blouse hangs off her shoulder, the thick, blue strap of her patterned servant's gown similarly askew, leaving the swell of her chest more exposed than usual. Unobscured by opulent necklaces or thick jewelry, it is a view the young Montague cannot tear his gaze from, much as he knows he ought to. Her collarbones are cast in sharp relief, a thin sheen of sweat highlighting them even more. The once serene movement of her breathing now makes Benvolio shift where he sits, the possibility of her breasts spilling from her corset increased with each inhalation.

Frequent visits to this brothel and that tavern, nights spent in the pleasured company of its residents, and it is this which has Benvolio blushing like an inexperienced adolescent.

He should leave. Go back to attending the horses until she wakes. Patrol their surroundings for the hundredth time. Anything but observe her in such a bared state; anything to distract him from the wistful idea that perhaps being married to her wouldn't have been so bad if this was the sight that awaited him each day.

Just as he makes to get up, a bird flies overhead, its boisterous squawking loud enough to rouse Rosaline into consciousness. Still, Benvolio feigns having just arrived, greeting her with a casual, "Good morning, Capulet."

She sits up, her disheveled clothing righting itself as she does, and she hands him back his cloak once she's managed to unravel it from around her. He takes it without protest, the heat of her enveloping him so wonderfully that he very nearly moans when he puts it on.

Again he shivers, for a new reason altogether.

.


End file.
